Page 25 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Over the days, I’ve kept alert for any sign that the aberrations at the Louvre might have spread to the Musée d’Orsay. But our paintings seem healthy, and they respond to my touch whenever I replace a piece of fruit or shoo the cat into her home.
“There.” Clio brushes one palm against the other. “All done.”
“Wonderful. It’s so hard to find good domestic help these days.”
She laughs and reclaims the dessert container before we continue on. It’s strange to have company on my nightly amble through the galleries, but it’s wonderful that it’s her.
“Does this happen a lot?” she asks before we’re far from Olympia.
“Every night. The paintings are terribly lazy. They make a mess and expect me to straighten up after them.”
Clio gauges my tone of fond exasperation and ventures, “But it’s more like they’re playing perhaps?”
“That’s it exactly.” Their antics at night are like those of naughty children. No, not even naughty—just mischievous, like students restless from being cooped up all day. “They seem to be having fun.”
“But you still pick up after them?”
“Of course.” It never occurred to me not to. “I’ll always care for the art.”
She nods. “You are a caretaker,” she says, like that settles it. She has another bite of the meringue then offers some to me. I take the spoon from her and eat a piece.
Then I hand the île flottante back to her and glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven—the paintings have more of a rhythm than a schedule, but the dancers are usually timely.
“Are you ready for our second date?” I ask, hinting that I have a plan.
“This isn’t it?” she asks, that playful glint in her eyes. “The lovely dessert and the stroll through the museum? Because this has been a pretty good date. At least, where I come from.”
“There’s more. I have something else in mind. I’m wondering if you would like to go to the ballet with me.”
“The ballet?” She sounds interested, but then, disappointed, she shakes her head. “I can’t leave.”
I quirk up my lips, having a little fun with her. “I’m thinking more of a command performance.”
“Color me intrigued,” she says, all flirty.
“Intrigued is a good look on you,” I toss back.
“You look good too.”
Sparks tear across my skin again. Flirting with a painting. This is my new world order.
And I like it.
“But you won’t distract me, Julien,” she admonishes me. “A command performance, you say? Show me now, or I won’t believe you.”
“I hope you’ll believe your eyes.”
Relishing the moment, I take the empty takeout container from her and drop it in the recycling bin on our way from one gallery to the other.
We cross the cavernous main hall to where my dancer friends hang out. I tap twice near the frame of the Degas, then the girl in white squeezes her way out of the paint.
“It’s you!” she exclaims. “How nice to see you.”
“Hello there.” I’m not surprised she’s the one who answered. I saw her out on her own first, and she’s been more interactive than the other art. “How is your foot?”
“All better. See?” She balances on one leg and rotates the other ankle.
“Glad to hear it.” I sense Clio watching the exchange with avid interest, but my vibe with the dancer is unquestionably platonic. “I didn’t introduce myself the other night. I’m Julien, and this is Clio.”
The dancer curtsies with a giggle. “Hello, Julien and Clio. I’m Emmanuelle.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Emmanuelle.” Clio nods, and her smile is as warm as ever—at least while she’s out of her frame. The contrast between her manners and the little ballerina’s strikes me—a dynamic from another era. Clio is forthright, and I love that about her, but from her clothes and manners, she’s definitely a lady, no matter what social status she might have been born into. She also blends seamlessly into this time, picking up mannerisms, ways of speaking, things like that. It’s fascinating to watch her soak up the world around her like a sponge, to assimilate it.
Her ability to adapt lights the flame under my curiosity, and I’m going to get distracted if I don’t bank the fire and stick to my plan.
Emmanuelle motions for her friend from the painting to join her, which she does, in a flutter of white tulle. Another moment and there are ballerinas everywhere, wriggling out of frames, stretching, and greeting each other with kisses on cheeks, and then a voice calls, “Places, places!”
I steer Clio to a bench where we watch as the Degas girls begin the finale of Swan Lake. Dancers in pale shades of pink and blue and white become graceful birds as the drama plays out with Emmanuelle and her friend dancing the parts of Odette and the prince confronting the evil sorcerer. There’s no music but the tapping of their toe shoes on the parquet floor, but it’s easy to imagine an orchestra, maybe Tchaikovsky himself directing. Why not? Art crosses all mediums.
